


At the Journey's End (a.k.a. the Beginning of Another One)

by TheEulerConstant (Fanny1995214)



Category: Not a FanFic - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Original work - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 07:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19268749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanny1995214/pseuds/TheEulerConstant
Summary: This is an original fiction about a (fictitious) tennis player, Edward Mandel, and his relationship with a (also fictitious) actor, Adrian Ashton. The general theme, I suppose, is to explore what it would be like for the tennis world to have an openly gay, prominent player, and how things would progress if said player were involved with an A-list actor in a same-sex relationship. There isn't a complete storyline so to speak, just snapshots spanning over multiple years.





	At the Journey's End (a.k.a. the Beginning of Another One)

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress.

November

“The thing about being in a big franchise,” Adrian sighs, “is that your job doesn’t end when the shooting is over. It extends much more beyond just acting. Acting is even the easy part, you know. First of all there is the promotional tour—flying non-stop all over the world, giving endless interviews of platitudes, attending premiers, posing for a thousand flashing cameras. 

“Actually, when you look back at the press junkets and public circus, they are not so bad. Occasionally a journalist or a talk show host brings up a question that’s marginally fun or thoughtful, and the fans, despite their craziness, are often quite nice. And you are contracted to do all that, which, to some extent, does help with the box office. But then, when the movie comes out, especially if it does well, the not so good part begins. You get recognized on the street, and suddenly the paparazzi become all fascinated with the sight of you walking out of a pub. 

“There used to be a time when I could peacefully exit the stage door after a show at West End, chatting with the waiting fans while signing a few playbills. Now, the last time I did Richard III, there was pretty much a riot every single night at the stage door. People would shout my name and ask me to sign things totally irrelevant to Shakespeare. I swear I saw police officers on site on the final night to monitor the huge crowd.”

Then he catches himself, pinching the ridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t be venting. If anyone else heard this, they would hate me for being an ungrateful bastard. ‘You’ve got the money and the fame, how can you complain?’”

Edward only listens quietly and offers his signature subtle and warm smile. “You have every right to talk about your feelings. Just because it would be a ‘first world problem’ doesn’t mean it shouldn’t trouble you like any other problem a normal man faces in his life. Plus, I can understand how you feel. It’s just, really challenging and tiring to live under the spotlight, you know? Having very little privacy, having to be on guard all the time, and being forced to endure whatever the public feels like throwing at you. ”

Adrian drinks up his wine, looking slightly less grim now. “Exactly. Both of our jobs involve putting ourselves out there for public consumption, but it doesn’t grant the media or the fans toown every single bit of you. The public persona, maybe, but not who we are when the camera is not rolling, not what we do with our lives in private.”

“A lot of people confuse a public image created for PR purposes and a man’s true personality.” Edward arched his eyebrow, “And that’s not going to change. So don’t hold your breath.”

That coaxes a laughter out of Adrian, and Edward takes that as a small victory. When Adrian invited him to dinner, he was hesitant (and nearly declined), precisely for the reason he just stated. He tremendously admires Adrian as an actor, and the fanboy in him would jump at an opportunity to talk with whom he believes as the most versatile and masterfully skilled performer of this era. However, “Oscar-winning actor Adrian Ashton” is simply a definition given by the world, which tells nothing about who the man truly is. Breaking the fourth wall and meeting Adrian in person would probably shatter Adrian’s (rather perfect) image in Edward’s mind and leave nothing behind.

Luckily, as it turns out, Edward’s concern is unnecessary. Adrian is even more charming in person, and somehow, he has quickly earned Edward’s trust by opening up and handing over his trust first. Edward would never be this honest and straightforward with anyone at the first dinner, and usually it makes him feel awkward if someone talks to him this personally, but Adrian seems to be an exception. When he speaks about his own feelings, Edward only wants to sympathize with him and comfort him, and that in turn makes him feel good about himself and, he realizes with half delight and half awe, feel closer to Adrian. 

This can be the start of a great friendship. Edward thinks with surprising joy.

He doesn’t know, of course, that he cannot be more wrong, and more right. 

 

 

December

“I have to fly back to Miami for winter training.” Edward manages to wipe the sweat from his forehand with his towel while keeping his phone on balance so as not to reveal too much of his naked torso. He has just finished a rather intense training session under the unforgiving sun of Miami, and Adrian’s FaceTime call arrives just before he can locate his fresh T-shirt.

“Immediately after Christmas?” Adrian seems bemused, “Surely you can stay for a couple more days. Ever since you said you had never been to Malibu, or any California beach at all, I’ve been determined to change that.”

For a moment Edward intends to play the “winter training is too important to even miss a day” card, but he figures Adrian won’t buy it. Instead he settles on honesty. “I’m only spending Christmas in California because Uncle Jacob decides more sunshine is good for his health. That means Arthur will fly down there from Palo Alto and stay at his beach-side mansion in Santa Monica.”

He stops explaining himself when he sees the flash of understanding in Adrian’s eyes. After a beat, Adrian says, in a gentler tone, “Are things between you and Arthur still—” he hesitates a half second, searching for the proper word, “—strained?” 

“Strained” would be downplaying it, he thinks. All the gossip websites practically threw a party when he and Arthur Kronenberg, billionaire risk investor at Silicon Valley and son of multi-billionaire Jacob Kronenberg, officially broke up, not to mention the jest and jab from the conservatives about the same-old “gay relationships don’t last”. But people can say whatever they like, despite his unwillingness to be the leading character of an entertainment story for completely wrong reasons. What truly pains him is the sheer absurdity and, he will never admit this to anyone, humiliation of the circumstances of the breakup. He was cheated on and dumped (although Arthur would insist that he was the one that got dumped) for some young, pretty model-wannabe-actor. The entire thing was a tragedy, really, and a year and a half later, he still can’t bring himself to accept any of Arthur’s numerous attempted apologies.

He simply nods, clearing his throat. “We maintain a friendly front for the sake of Uncle Jacob, but one can only keep up the pretenses for so long. ” By now he knows Adrian well enough (and trusts him enough) to tell him that Jacob Kronenberg became his legal guardian after his parents passed away in a car accident when he was 13, and for him, Jacob is a loving and caring father figure. The media don’t know, or haven’t dared to publish it, thanks to the far-reaching influence of the Kronenberg Corporation in the media industry. Otherwise people would invent all sorts of rumors about his relationship with Arthur, and that would hurt Jacob, which is the last thing he ever wants.

“It’s not like you are a teenager and have to be back home before midnight.” Adrian somehow refuses to drop the issue, and he starts to put on his persuading voice. And trust a world-class actor’s persuading voice to be damn persuasive. “Come on, you can stay anywhere else at Malibu, no need to see anyone you don’t want to talk to. I have a yacht where we can party all night. It will be fun.”

He’s about to come up with some other excuse to object when Adrian adds, “I’ll stock enough sugar-free sodas so that you don’t need to worry about your alcohol consumption. But even a 4-time Grand Slam champion deserves to unwind with some champagne once in a while.”

His cynical side amends “4 times in Singles, and a complete set in Doubles” but it doesn’t make anywhere near the surface. He sighs, quite resignedly, “Fine. You won.”

 

 

June

It has been a fast turnaround, but here he is, sitting in a prime seat of the Harold Pinter Theatre for the latest edition of _Betrayal_ , one of the most renowned plays by British playwright Harold Pinter. After losing in an excruciating three-set battle in the semi-final at Queen’s Club on Saturday, he pulled a couple of strings and got himself a ticket (which wasn’t an easy feat, to say the least) for the show on Sunday. 

The loss still stings, and there are quite a few things he definitely has to sort out before Wimbledon. But right now, he needs a distraction.

Nothing better than watching Adrian on stage.

When Adrian first mentioned this production to him earlier this year, he didn’t fully appreciate the significance. Well, not until he Googled the name “Harold Pinter’’ and picked up his jaw from the floor an hour later. He then texted Adrian, half apologizing for his own ignorance about British drama history, to which Adrian dryly replied, “Don’t worry. You’re American, after all.”

Edward refrained from digging up the original play before actually seeing it live, but he did look up the synopsis on Wikipedia. In short, the play is about an extramarital affair involving a married couple and the husband’s best man, told in reversed chronological order. So he expected something bleak, desperate, messy, or at least darkly sardonic.

In some sense, he was right. But of course, one should never assume the writing of a Nobel Prize winner to be two-dimensional. Fundamentally it is jarringly depressing, back-tracing the seven years during which three people get dragged down and hollowed out by deception and betrayal, yet unable to break the downward spiral caused by love until love itself is burnt out and consumed. But the presentation of the story—the narratives, the dialogues, the dramatic developments—is sharp and funny. And underneath the twisted, almost surreal plotline, lies reality and humanity. 

The director’s interpretation (“Yes, I know who James Lloyd is. Thank you very much, Adrian.”) is to-the-point, Edward thinks. Everything is deliberately minimalistic, bordering stark, steering the audience’s attention to the drama itself and the three central characters. Adrian plays the poor husband getting cheated on, and although Edward struggles a little in the first few minutes over the vast contrast between this character and Adrian himself, he quickly gets pulled into the play and stops thinking of Robert as Adrian at all. When he considers it more carefully later on, he realizes there isn’t much room for actors in this play—it is succinct, controlled, with emotions and conflicts suppressed and understated. But Adrian, as a phenomenal actor, finds a way to let silence and sternness speak volumes, and when he gets to reveal his despair and anger, he doesn’t lash out with over-the-top screams or all-over-the-place limbs, but instead he does that in a form of hopelessness with the barely contained, bubbling emotions hidden just under the surface. 

When the play ends, there are a few seconds of total silence, as if everyone were stunned into a trance. Then the audience erupt into passionate applause, which then evolves into cheers.

 

He gets to see Adrian nearly two hours later. Apparently the stage door has been flooded with enthusiastic fans and Adrian doesn’t want to disappoint them on a lovely Sunday night. When Edward suggests that they take a rain check on dinner, however, Adrian shakes his head, “I don’t have a show on Monday anyway, and I know you are free tomorrow morning. ”

There is something different about Adrian, he suspects. Adrian has taken off the stage makeup and removed whatever hair product he had on before, but instead of his usual shirt-and-jeans combo, he is wearing a suit jacket, a casual but rather handsome suit, which seems a bit excessive in late June, even at night. 

His suspicion checks out at the end of their dinner. When their wine glasses are mostly empty and neither is inclined to drink any more (in Edward’s case, he has to stop drinking unless he wants to face off his physical trainer’s wrath the next day), Adrian asks him a question.

THE question.

Edward feels his brain vanishing. Or, more probably, all of his neurons decide to stop functioning instantly.

Oh my god, he faintly thinks, Adrian Ashton literally said “I might have fallen in love with you”, to me.

His blank looks must have sent some bad signals, because Adrian gradually turns pale and his face goes through embarrassment, regret, shame, disappointment and settles on something that resembles pain. “I understand this may be too forward——” He tries, quite miserably, to back paddle it.

Before Adrian utters some form of heart-breaking apology, Edward blurts out, “I’’ll have to seriously consider it.” When Adrian simply stares at him with the same painfully sad expression, Edward finally re-locates his brain and clarifies, “I was just really surprised. And flattered. But I’m not turning you down.”

Obviously it is not the unqualified “yes” or “me too” Adrian was hoping for, but he visibly relaxes and manages a hesitant smile. After a moment, Adrian says, with much more self composure, “That means I can take you out on a date, right?”

Edward can’t control the smile that’s creeping up on his own face. “Of course you can. But mind you, this dinner doesn’t count.”

 

 

July

The Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final is very tough, as every match against Phillipp Reitzenstein is. Like an unerring machine, Phillipp is meticulous and calculating. Coupled with his lightning fast reflexes and surgical executions, that makes Phillipp a lethally dangerous opponent.

Edward hasn’t won a Grand Slam final against Phillipp before. However, his own experiences have taught him that history doesn’t fully determine the future. And today, it is his goal to write a new chapter of history. 

When the ball bounces on the tip of the net and eventually drops on the other side of the court, when the umpire starts announcing the final score of the fourth-set tiebreaker in his monotone voice, when Centre Court suddenly explodes with thrilled shouting and screaming, he still can’t truly believe it. 

Then Phillipp walks across the court and gives him the handshake and a half-embrace hug, and reality hits him like a crashing train. It’s not that he hasn’t won a final on this exact court before—he won the Boy’s Singles all those years ago, and he achieved the career Slam in Doubles with François—but this is a whole new experience, and at this moment a million thoughts are rushing into his brain, blurring his sight.

He turns around and glances at his box. There sits his team, and even Arthur (they talked and reconciled after he won Indian Wells, and when Arthur showed up at Roland Garros, the gossip websites went nuts), but it still seems lacking somehow. 

And it dawns on him that he’d like to share this moment with Adrian.

 

 

September

Adrian passes the phone back to his publicist. “There. It would be much appreciated if you tweet it now.”

He is in New Mexico for a sequence of desert scenes for the last of the action movie trilogy, so a trip to New York, more specifically, the National Tennis Center at Flushing, is impossible. He had to watch it on ESPN, alternating between agony and euphoria over every single shot. For someone who only checks the scoreboard after the fact, it would seem like a clean, three-set win for Edward. But it has been a close match, with long rallies and tiny margins between the two players. 

When it ended, Adrian felt like he has been the one running in the humid, windy and noisy stadium for three and a half hours. And he had this strong urge to shout from a roof to the whole world.

So he did. Not from a real roof. But on Twitter. 

His publicist was reluctant to let him post from his official Twitter account for the first time in a long while (“Don’t you think it is too conspicuous?”), but he stood his ground. Now the woman gives him an almost amused look after reading his very short tweet, “I have to say, you are doing a pretty decent job with the emojis. For a man in his 40s. ” Then she taps the screen for a few times and shows him the edited version (she’s taken out two exclamation marks but kept all the silly emojis) before hitting the “Tweet” button.

Adrian decides that he’s in too good a mood to get back at her for that age comment.

 

 

February

The red carpet is always boring. Thirty minutes in, Edward has already learned the formula: person A poses, and accepts repetitive brief interviews; If person A is not a nominee, he/shewill be asked to predict who will win tonight, and otherwise person A will be asked to express gratitude/excitement/joy to be at the Oscars and give compliments to his/her fellow nominees. 

Oh, and the oldest “what are you wearing today” question. Most often addressed to female celebrities. 

Edward can’t help but feel a little bitter about the situation. He is sitting in front of the 60-inch television in Adrian’s house (tasteful and elegant but not luxurious or grandiose, just like its owner) in West Los Angeles. Alone. Because Adrian has been nominated for the Best Actor award for the fourth time, but Edward can’t go with him as his plus-one.

So the saga went like this: The executives at MGM freaked out when Adrian told them he now has a boyfriend and first nicely asked and then all but threatened Adrian to keep a firm lid on his sexuality. Adrian of course didn’t budge, so his agent had to sit him down and lecture him about the importance of the film and how insensitive it would be to jeopardize the product of joint hard work by hundreds of people in the cast and crew. When that didn’t work either, Edward intervened, straight out claiming that he wouldn’t have the time, nor the interest, to go to award ceremonies with Adrian at all. He even said “those award ceremonies all seem phony and empty, and I would be bored to death, so I may as well stay at home”. 

Edward wasn’t exactly telling the truth, and Adrian knew it. Still, on the next day, Adrian finally agreed to avoid revealing any detail regarding his relationship status throughout the promotional tour and the award season. 

The film, an anti-utopian horror film, beautifully written with funny but profound lines and incredibly designed plot twists, did extremely well. Both financially and critically. This year, it was nominated by the Academy for 6 awards, including Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Original Screenplay, and Best Cinematography. 

Although Adrian said that he probably won’t win, because another nominee in his category has got a film that was basically solely written for him to show off every last atom of his acting talents, (“But you won at the BAFTA!” Edward has objected. To which Adrian joked, “Thanks to my British passport.”) Edward still sits through the 3-hour show, hoping with fingers crossed that Adrian wins. 

Adrian doesn’t win. But the film sweeps all the other five awards, so when the camera gives Adrian a close-up at the end of the night, the smile on his face seems genuine. 

Edward is not sure if he is smiling at all. He just wants Adrian to be home, right now. 

 

 

June

Rain is pouring down in Paris, rendering the sight out of the window a muddy, clay-red blur.

It always rains at least once during the two weeks of Roland Garros, forcing the tournament to cancel an entire day of matches. It’s almost ironic, really, as if some deity up there were determined to taunt the pathetic lacking of a roofed stadium at one of the world’s most prestigious sports events.

Edward was scheduled to play today before the rain decided to drop by. Now he’s just waiting around in players’ lounge for his car to take him back to the hotel. He’s fidgety with all the excessive energy built up in his body during his pre-game morning routine, desperate for some kind of outlet. 

It is at this moment that François taps him on the shoulder and pushes an iPad in front of him. “Thought you’d want to see this.” François says, without preamble. 

Despite having known François for years, Edward still can’t help but admire the natural cheerfulness in his tone and body language. It seems that “being in a good mood” is François’ default setting, and it is almost contagious, lifting the spirit of anyone around him and making him readily lovable in return. 

“What is this?” He asks, reflexively. And Edward’s response is pressing the “play” button on screen.

It is a YouTube video with Adrian and his female co-star sitting on stools, a huge poster on the background. A press junket interview for the action movie trilogy, then. 

Right now the interviewer is exchanging pleasantries and routine Q&As with the interviewees. Edward opens his mouth, about to ask “why are you showing me this boring stuff”, when François bounces on his spot and hushes, “here it goes”.

The interviewer says, “there is a very _intriguing_ scene in the movie that I _have_ to ask you about, Adrian. Let’s take a look first.” Then a clip, apparently from the upcoming film, starts rolling. 

It seems that the character Adrian is playing, Joseph Campbell, is being chased on the streets of Paris at night. He makes an abrupt turn into a narrow alley and dodges inside an unlocked backdoor. Immediately loud dance music begins blaring, and in the dimmed lights, the vague shapes of men can be seen, swaying and laughing. 

Men in sensual clothes. Or barely clothed at all. Edward swears he has even glimpsed the trace of glitters and heavy eye makeups. 

It is a somewhat stereotypical representation of gay clubs, the rational part of Edward’s brain provides. Nonetheless, intriguing indeed.

On camera, Joseph Campbell’s face betrays only the shortest moment of surprise, which is replaced by an amused smirk. He quickly shrugs off his suit jacket, drags off his tie, pops open the top three buttons of his dress shirt, and rolls up his sleeves. Then he tousles his hair and casually strolls toward the center of the crowd like he owns the place. The clip ends with the character winking (almost dirtily) at a topless young man on the edge of the dancing floor. 

He can feel, more than hear, François mouthing “wow” beside him. Seriously.

The interviewer asks Adrian, rather too excitedly, about how the scene was shot, whether it was fun, and what would happen _after_ the wink. Adrian answers them with good humor, somehow managing to engage the female star at the same time (which involves a joke about European people’s contempt for Americans’ inability to dance). 

Then the interviewer brings up another question, rather like an afterthought. “So, Adrian, do you think your character, Joseph, would be really interested if he met an attractive man?”

Uh oh. This is… dangerous territory. Outright saying “no” would be borderline politically incorrect, but saying “yes” would be interpreted as—

“Oh, I don’t see why not.” Adrian answers calmly, without any air of concern, as if this were the most natural conversation in the world, “I’d like to believe Joseph agrees with me on this matter. You know, seeking for beauty, not femininity or masculinity.”

The interview gets wrapped up after that. When the video ends, Edward doesn’t know what to think for a moment. To be fair, Adrian has given an incredibly smooth (and nice) answer, which is mostly likely being quoted all over the Internet right now. But for reasons he himself doesn’t know, he feels a little… let down. 

“Hey Eddie, you all right?” François gently pokes him on the arm. He sounds hesitant, which doesn’t suit him.

Edward clears his throat, trying to get a grip of himself. “Yeah, of course.” He pushes up the corners of his own lips to mimic a smile but suspects he’s rather failing, “He handled it really well. Some might even say it’s inspiring.”

François falls into silence for several long seconds. Edward adamantly doesn’t look at him. He is worried that François doesn't understand. Or that he does understand.

Eventually he feels François’ hand patting his shoulder. “I know, man. I know. I wish the world could be better than it is.”

 

 

 


End file.
